


Through the Glamor

by Rosage



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Other, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:42:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25073314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosage/pseuds/Rosage
Summary: Asra and Julian attend a party together, for purely pragmatic reasons.
Relationships: Asra/Julian Devorak
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	Through the Glamor

**Author's Note:**

> This features minor Portia/Nadia.

Though Asra stands alone in a guest room, his borrowed outfit makes him square his shoulders. He smoothes his draping purple tunic over his dark pants, the material fine enough to fit in without drawing interest. He manages a centering breath before an erratic knock sounds on the door.

“Come in,” he says, unsurprised when Ilya sweeps inside.

“Hello, are you ready, do you need any—” Ilya stops short, his gaze raking over Asra. “Oh, um, oh.”

For once, Ilya is dressed subtly: a plain servant outfit, properly buttoned. A mop of a wig covers his eye. The party hasn’t even started, and Asra wants to rub his temples.

“Did Nadi not give you something to match?”

“Uh, maybe? I was at the servant closets, dressing to take Pasha’s place.”

“I didn’t take the assignment that literally. So you’re…”

“A humble palace hand, at your service.” Ilya flops into a bow. “What a serendipitous bit of improv. I can be your attendant.”

Asra’s lips lift even as he shakes his head. “People will think I’m important.”

“A few tales around the Rowdy Raven suggest you are,” Ilya says. Asra fiddles with his yellow sash.

“And who tells those? We’re not supposed to draw attention, remember?” A lost cause, but it was Nadia’s request. With Portia as her consort, she’s lost a covert pair of ears. The role of trusted friends who blend in falls to them. “Nevermind, I can glamor you.”

“Er, glamor?”

“An illusion, to disguise your outfit. It won’t bite,” he adds before Ilya can question it.

Ilya’s brow pinches before wiggling into an arch. “In that case, dress me as you please.”

Asra snorts and digs around in his bag for his rainbow sand. Subtle or no, he can’t give up the chance to make Ilya wear colors. He circles him, envisioning a crimson ensemble, accented with blue. “Stop fidgeting,” he murmurs, and Ilya becomes a statue, his cheeks flushed.

With a handful of sand and a glimmer, Ilya appears in a suit and silk cravat. His regular hair replaces his wig. He rushes to the mirror, where he exclaims and feels around the unchanged fabric.

“Nice trick,” he says. “Do you do parties?”

Asra can’t help but smile. “C’mon, Nadi’s waiting.”

They find her in the hall outside her chambers, her gown teal and elegant. Her forehead smoothes as they greet her. If she sees through Ilya’s appearance, she doesn’t comment.

“Thanks for this, you two,” Portia says. “Someone’s gotta—someone has to take up the mantle of snooping.” Her scarlet waterfall of a dress leaves little chance for it.

“Leaving you to the attention you deserve,” Nadia says, adjusting her wife’s sapphire necklace.

“I mean, jury’s still out on how the meetings will go.”

The party prefaces a summit for ambassadors. Now that the public has clean water and food, Nadia aims to improve Vesuvia’s position with its neighbors, most of whom couldn’t name it on a map.

“Anything you want us to look out for, Nadi?” Asra asks.

“I simply feel uneasy having one less trusted person on the floor. As such, please enjoy the party. I will summon you if I need anything.”

“Aye, aye,” Ilya says with a salute.

“Just don’t embarrass me,” Portia says.

He presses his hand across his forehead. “My princess, I would never.”

Portia nudges him down the hall before winking at Asra. “Have fun!”

* * *

They use the ballroom’s guest entrance, where the chamberlain bounces around vetting and announcing people. Each announcement draws countless eyes. As their turn approaches, Asra’s earlier calming breath expires. He takes Ilya's offered elbow, his fingers settling against the uniform’s fabric and Ilya’s solid arm, centering him through the glamor.

He stops the chamberlain from announcing them, just in time to avoid _magician_ following him the whole evening. Regardless, he keeps closer to Ilya than intended as they stride inside.

Orchestral music and rose perfume welcome them. Magically tinted lighting shines on flowers arranged like every country’s flag. Gone are past parties’ garish gold decorations; the only remnant of the masquerade is the long buffet, open to the public. All ages mill around trays laden with stuffed birds, floral custards, and even Salasi’s braided breads.

Though unsure, Asra wouldn’t be surprised if Nadia recruited that last touch for him. He softens. Parties tire her, too, but she can’t blend in or take a break. If only he and Ilya could whisk her out to the veranda like old times. Then again, they had been hiding her from Lucio, and Asra prefers her smile as she floats down the stairs with Portia on her arm.

While Ilya warms up a circle of guests with travel stories, Asra assesses the room. Navra is as animated as a fire next to Nopal’s leader. The Papess of Firent causes a stir with her rare appearance, her entourage close and her gaze sharp. The first to break through her guard is Nasmira, commenting gently on everything from the room’s décor to the Papess’s accessories.

The rest are unfamiliar until Natiqa slides over. “Please tell me Dia invited you two to liven things up, or to keep an eye on something nefarious.”

“Nothing gets past you. It’s not that exciting, though,” Asra says.

“Of course it wouldn’t be. Ah, well, I suppose I won’t contrive drama at the first major event for _both_ my baby sisters.”

They joke about her family, and she shares gossip about politicians before leaving to break up a fight. As Asra pulls Ilya away from a long-winded story, they overhear something that makes Ilya freeze.

“The countess’s taste in consorts boggles the mind.”

A well-dressed noble sips from a wineglass. The representative from Venterre tries to discuss the wine they provided, but the noble continues, “A peasant from—what did they call it? Do they even have an ambassador here?”

Ilya’s fists clench, like he’s about to provide a pair of Nevivon ambassadors. Asra squeezes his elbow. “Our job is to listen, remember? Nadi will deal with it.”

Though he follows Asra to the buffet, Ilya ignores the bite-sized appetizers Asra tries to feed him. He glances at Portia, who stands tall beside Nadia. They’re too far away to tell if her smile is strained.

Ilya whirls on the couple next to them. “I heard the countess’s consort saved a pair of children from a fire. A stove was on, that is, it was left on…”

As his gossip intensifies, his gestures draw an audience that blocks the buffet table. Asra tugs him aside.

“Y’know, my point was we shouldn’t cause a scene. Tricks are fine if we don’t get caught,” Asra whispers, nodding toward the noble from before. Ilya grins devilishly. “Just keep everyone’s attention a bit longer.”

Ilya returns to his story while Asra steps off to the side. The noble turns his back on the commotion, and Asra’s fingers twist beneath the buffet table with a spark of magic. The noble recoils as his wine spills down his front, causing a stir among his companions.

Laughing, Ilya wraps an arm around Asra’s shoulders. They make themselves scarce.

“No threats so far, just petty words,” Ilya says, though he checks over both shoulders. “Shall we, er, take up a more central post?”

Couples congregate on the floor as the music picks up. Portia sweeps Nadia out into the center, the chandelier shining on their smiles. Asra leads Ilya in joining them. Ilya’s own smile is stained with disbelief, his gaze glued to Asra, with no attempt to watch the crowd. After all the stimuli, it’s both grounding and dizzying to focus on him in return.

The tempo slows. They sway in place as the room tilts. “Oh, I love this song,” Ilya murmurs. He cradles Asra, close and careful, twisting something in Asra’s chest. His hands slide over Ilya’s back, over fabric only he knows the true nature of.

They used to dance, moments of escape they claimed where they could—between the library shelves, on the Rowdy Raven’s tables, in Mazelinka’s yard. They haven’t danced like this. Not at that first masquerade they might have spent together, if Ilya wasn’t locked up while Asra gave away his heart. Even the last masquerade was cut short. Would they have danced then, with their friendship barely rekindled?

Something else kindles in Asra now, with half a heart and Ilya crooning in his ear, into the empty spaces.

The music becomes livelier. They part, eyes meeting in challenge, and complicate their footwork. They take up more and more of the floor, claiming space with swooping movements, twisting to see how far the other will bend. They take turns spinning out and in. Each time, they hold each other for a breathless moment, as if surprised they both returned.

On the final note, Asra prompts Ilya to dip him. He remains suspended, weightless, waiting for strong arms to let him fall. They don’t. Ilya stares down at him, a sheen of sweat on his brow but a sparkle in his eye. Asra laughs for the joy of it.

Clapping cuts him off. A small audience waits for an encore, burning his ears as he pulls away. _So much for not drawing attention._

“Time for fresh air?” Ilya asks, and offers his arm again.

* * *

The cool evening air soothes Asra. Bugs chirp over the noise from inside. Unlike at the masquerade, the gardens aren’t full of revelry. Garlands decorate the veranda, and magenta pillows are arranged in a corner. This time, he knows Nadia had him in mind. He drops onto a pillow and finally takes a breath.

“Are you all right?” Ilya asks. Asra stretches.

“Yeah. Join me, it’s comfy.”

Ilya dives to do so. He rearranges his long limbs before settling. Asra drops the glamor, and Ilya only lasts a moment before undoing the top buttons of his shirt.

The quiet is as comfortable as their plush haven. Ilya bends rather than breaks it with a murmur. “Brings back memories.”

Even now, that phrase makes Asra’s heart beat faster. Or maybe it’s the way Ilya’s face is tilted up, his eyelids and lips loose, his arms crossed behind his head instead of in front of him. Fireflies drift around him, blinking in and out, and Asra follows that light until he’s all but rolled over on top of Ilya.

Ilya’s brief calm melts. “Asra?”

Asra lifts enough to hover. He slides Ilya’s wig off with a snort. “Why did you bother keeping this?”

“Always have a back up plan.” Ilya looks pleased with himself, but he’s still tense. Asra leans down and speaks low.

“Will you relax if I back off, or if I come closer?”

Ilya licks his lips and shifts beneath Asra. “Let’s gamble on closer.”

Everything else drifts in hazy twilight as Asra fits their mouths together, a process of shifting elbows and tilting jaws, of Ilya letting him into the warmth that lies past his cool skin. Ilya’s arms wrap around him, more desperate than his hold on the dance floor. He rubs Asra’s back, insistent, but Asra moves no further than to rock with him.

They part. Asra drops his head over Ilya’s shoulder, too tired for more than lazy kisses against his neck. Ilya’s hand wanders between his shoulder blades in slow question.

“We could, ah, do this again, if you want. I mean, if Nadia wants us,” Ilya says. Asra hums.

“I’m sure she will.”

A shriek of laughter and a crash filter in from the party. Asra sighs and rises, drinking in Ilya’s disheveled appearance. Before they head inside, he renews the glamor, though he stashes the wig in his bag.

* * *

After the party, Nadia looks in need of a drink and a night alone with Portia. Asra keeps his observations brief. It can’t compare to whatever Portia used to tell her.

“I, uh, swear we were paying attention,” Ilya says.

“Sorry, Nadi.”

“Oh, I think it went rather well,” Nadia says. “Though Julian might consider buttoning his shirt beneath his glamor.”

She glides off, leaving Ilya to sputter.


End file.
